


The taste of roses

by wearethewitches



Category: NCIS
Genre: Family, How Do I Tag, Italian Mafia, Multi, Polyamory, Small Towns, Undercover as Married, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: When Tim, Ziva and Tony witness a violent scene, they have to go into Witness Protection; and their lives, after.
Relationships: Ziva David/Anthony DiNozzo/Timothy McGee
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'meh' update schedule. if you know me, you'll be aware that means zip all.

It’s a dark evening. The pavement is wet from a recent rainfall and on the way to their cars, from an evening out with their co-workers, Tony Dinozzo, Timothy McGee and Ziva David walk down the street together, chatting away happily.

“-and then he goes, _wham, bam!_ Shoots the guns right out of their hands!” Tony exaggerates with his hands, walking down the street with a spring in his step as he shoots imaginary bad guys.

Ziva, rolling her eyes, scoffs at his story. “He could not have shot the guns out of their hands, that is not feasible – and even if he _did_ do such a thing, it would be their _hands_ that were shot, not the guns!”

“But Ziva,” Tim says mockingly, thumbs tucked into his pockets, suit jacket slung casually over his bent wrist. “That’s the power of cinema.”

“You just want to win the bet,” accuses Ziva, poking him. Her hair falls across her face, eyes dark and narrowed. “Do not presume I had not heard. Abby was very forthcoming about your wager.”

“What bet? What sort of wager?” Tony leans over, poking his nose in. “Is _this_ why you’ve been agreeing with me all week?”

Tim opens his mouth to explain, when suddenly a van screeches around the street corner, attracting their attention. The three NCIS agents look over sharply, watching it pass them and then scream to a stop in front of an Italian bistro less than a block away. The black rear doors open, releasing a stream of armed gunmen. A nearby couple, mere metres in front of them, shriek as the armed men wave their guns about, running across the road to escape.

Then the gunmen line up in front of the windows of the restaurant.

“Oh, shit,” Tony mutters, hand going to his belt – but none of them are armed, bar Ziva, who pulls a gun out from the deep pocket of her long black trenchcoat. Her dress reflects under the streetlight, a silver cocktail dress with a plunging neckline and the thugs must see something, because two turn their way.

“Shoot and we’ll kill you!” One shouts, Tim and Tony angling themselves towards the wall, grasping for Ziva’s coat even as she aims. The men press themselves into an indent, pulling Ziva flush against Tim as the thugs shoot at the pavement by their feet.

“Neither of you are armed,” Ziva states, the rain of gunfire continuing – both into the restaurant and towards them. “Phone Gibbs and Metro police.”

“I’ll take Gibbs,” says Tony.

Tim continues, “And I’ve got Metro.”


	2. Chapter 2

Breathing shallowly, Ziva peeks around the corner, getting the lay of the land. The black van the men arrived in is still running, a low thrum of an engine reaching her ears – as do voices, belonging to a tall individual with a familiar profile. He steps closer to the thugs at the edge, who are aiming at the three of them, his words clear.

“Who are you shooting at, fellas?”

“Some lady with a gun. The men she was with went for their pieces, but we didn’t see them,” one of the thugs stares suspiciously in their direction, Ziva focusing hard on ignoring Tim as he calls Metro, describing the situation.

“Right,” says the familiar man, raising his chin. In a flash, Ziva realises why he is so familiar and her mouth opens before she can think it through.

“That is Amadeo Scordato,” she informs her friends, colleagues, feeling them tense behind her. Calling out to the thugs, Ziva shouts, _“Federal Agents! Surrender your weapons!”_

“Feds?”

“Fuck, kill ‘em!”

Shots fly in their direction, Tony’s hand flying to her front, holding her back from fire. “Careful, Ziva!”

“Have you called Gibbs?” She questions lowly, hissing at him. A ringing dial tone is her only answer, as Tony shoves the phone in her direction for the briefest of moments. He isn’t picking up – clearly.

 _Where are you, Gibbs? Never be unreachable, that is your rule._ Ziva goes to raise her voice again, when another car pulls up – a town car, with blacked out windows and plates she memorises in an instant. Even Amadeo straightens at the sight of it, though he becomes distracted by another man exiting the restaurant, a briefcase in hand.

“I- I don’t want any trouble,” he says, holding tight to the case. Ziva identifies him as a chef by his apron and hat, watching him look nervously at the gunmen. “There’s no need for this.”

“You tried to blackmail my grandfather with his rightful property,” says Amadeo, so pleasantly that it could be described as _saccharine._ Amadeo gestures to the town car, parked behind the van. Another man opens it and from inside, an elderly man exits.

“Holy crap, that’s Bruno Scordato,” Tim whispers. Ziva glances up to see him leaning out slightly, abruptly reducing her estimation about how much space there is in this corner. _We need better cover._

“Boss!” Tony suddenly exclaims in a whisper, breathing a sigh of relief. “Boss, you need to get down here, we’re trapped in a very tight corner with death in every direction, courtesy of the Italian Mafia- yeah. Yeah. Thanks, boss.” He hangs up. “Gibbs is on the way.”

 _Not a moment too soon,_ Ziva thinks, listening to Bruno Scordato talk.

“Julian. You betrayed me. I gave you a life, let you go on the promise that you do as I say, when I say it…and this? Your fate is decided.”

“I still have customers, sir,” says Julian the chef, less nervous now and more angry, fit to be tied as he gestures to the restaurant. “You will kill them over some papers?”

“Not just any papers.” Bruno waves him off, looking to Amadeo. “Get them. Then dispose of the trash.”

“Grandfather, we have a problem with that,” Amadeo replies, jerking a thumb down towards the NCIS agents. “Cops. NCIS.”

Bruno Scordato raises an eyebrow. “I would ask why I should care, but…” Scordato turns, squinting into the darkness before calling out, “Who is there? What NCIS agents have stumbled upon my business this evening?”

Ziva does not know what to say – except, apparently Tony does, his voice tight and loud.

“Anthony Dinozzo and my colleagues, who have important relatives of their own. I’m talking international _Famiglia_ – for real, _signore_. If you kill us, you’ll go down in more ways than one.”

Bruno Scordato raises an eyebrow. “Anthony? My, this must be my lucky week. Your friends will certainly not die, if you convince them to keep their mouths shut, my boy.”

“Tony?” Ziva murmurs, confused. She looks back at him, but Tony has pressed himself even further against the wall.

“Your father knows well enough to stay away from me,” continues Bruno, “but you have always been a wildcard. Luciana’s little boy. My all my grandchildren, you are my favourite, I must say. Brassy. A traitorous detective piece of scum, yes – but brassy.”

“Favourite?” Amadeo snaps at him, Ziva dizzy from all the implications. “He’s your fucking favourite?”

“Shut your trap,” barks Bruno at- at Tony’s _cousin?_ Ziva physically leans out past the alley to get a better view, not expecting the spray of gunfire from a thug. She gasps at a fiery pain across her cheekbone, hearing a sharp gasp behind her; however, she is far more surprised at Bruno Scordato’s angry yell.

Ziva looks back again just in time to see him steal Amadeo’s gun. The guilty thug drops to the ground without a word, the silenced shot whistling through the alley, muted. Somehow, despite her background, despite all her skills as an assassin, Ziva is still shocked at the egregious killing.

“If any of you shoot at my grandson again, I’ll gut you all!” Bruno exclaims, before aiming once more. A shot rings out – Julian the chef falling to the ground. He glares at Amadeo, unphased. “See what you made me do? I liked Julian. Should have gotten the damn package.”

“I’ll- I’ve got it, sir.” Amadeo lunges for the body, grabbing the briefcase and offering it to Scordato. The old man takes it roughly, then gestures to the restaurant. Amadeo nods silently and from beside her, Tony hisses as if in pain.

“Don’t react. Don’t move,” he orders them both quietly. He reaches for Ziva again, pushing her back into McGee forcefully, squeezing up against their sides for further cover. She feels blood run down her jaw, most likely from the bullet that grazed her. The engine of the town car rumbles, a door opening and closing; then, it drives off, away from this mess.

Mere moments later, the thugs fire on the restaurant.

At her back, Tim jerks, his arm wrapping around her on instinct, as if to cradle her against oncoming fire, while Tony looks across the street with dead eyes. She hears glass shatter, dozens of people screaming. How many are dead and dying, right now? Ziva’s gut burns with guilt at not being able to help them.

In the distance there are sirens. The thugs continue to fire, until all their magazines are empty. Eventually, Amadeo barks an order to move out, firing the handgun once more in their direction, threatening them. Ziva squeezes the barrel of her own gun, feeling her heart pound from adrenaline and Tim’s lungs expand behind her, rubs pressing against her shoulders.

The van drives off, but the NCIS agents wait there for another ten seconds before moving. Tony overtakes Ziva – which is how she is able to see the blood seeping through his left arm in two places.

“Tony,” she calls as they rush towards the restaurant, “you’re hurt.”

“So are you and all these people,” he replies, taking out his cell-phone again, calling emergency dispatch. “I at least ten ambulances to the following address-”

The world becomes a blur. Ziva counts approximately forty-three guests inside the restaurant itself, another twelve wait-staff, kitchen and front of house personnel, along with seven people in the rest-rooms. Eighty-two, in all – eighty-three when counting ‘Julian’. Of those eighty-two, forty-five are dead with three critically injured. The death-toll mounts by another two before the ambulances arrive, though Ziva isn’t there to see them pass.

Gibbs, of course, arrives long before Metro PD gets there.

“Are you alright?” He questions, looking the three of them over critically and focusing on Ziva’s cheek and Tony’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Ziva quickly states, hoping that Gibbs will force Tony to receive care.

True to form, before Tony can get a full sentence out, he snaps his fingers and points at the senior field agent, glaring him into a chair, away from all the bodies. Tim gets the nearest first-aid kit for Gibbs’ use, before seating himself down beside Ziva, who shivers; she’d offered her long coat to a terrified teenaged girl, who hid behind a decorative marble wall and saw her parents slaughtered by gunfire.

“Come here,” Tim demands, opening his arms. Hesitant, but cold, Ziva moves to seat herself in his lap, letting him wrap his arms around her tightly. Tony and Gibbs don’t blink twice at them – but maybe that is because Tony still has that dead expression in his eyes. Gibbs looks worried.

 _Was Bruno Scordato telling the truth?_ Ziva asks herself, worried for him. _Is he really Tony’s grandfather?_

Gibbs eventually asks, “What happened?”

“Italian Mafiosa, boss,” says Tony. “The Scordato’s. Amadeo Junior, the piece of shit who’s going to inherit the Family Business and old Grandpa Bruno himself, head of the Scordato Family – when Nonna Margarita is too ill to do the work herself, of course.”

“The Scordato’s, aren’t they…”

“Related to me?” Tony smiles, but it’s false. “Yeah. On my mother’s side, though – Grandpa Bruno _hates_ Anthony Dinozzo Senior. He hates me, too, but that’s because of business, not because he doesn’t like my awesome sense of humour or-”

“Dinozzo,” Gibbs puts a hand on his shoulder, “Stop. I get the picture. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Ziva could tell it better,” says Tony. “She was the one watching the entire time. Liked the view so much she got us _both_ shot.”

“Dinozzo!” Gibbs head-slaps him, turning to Ziva. Their eyes meet and Ziva takes a breath, describing the events of the evening. She doesn’t realise she’s shaking until Tim’s grasp becomes tighter, holding her steady. Looking up at him over her shoulder, Ziva wordlessly thanks him.

He just nods.

Metro PD secures the crime-scene and they repeat their statements four times, each to a different branch of the government. Metro, FBI, Metro again and then NCIS’s actual investigator, called in by Vance to assess them all.

“They’re good, Yancy,” Gibbs waves them off when they start to hover, as if worried they’re traumatised and aren’t saying all they could. “I’ve got ‘em. Tell Metro and the FBI they’ll be at Navy Yard.”

“They’re witnesses, now,” warns Yancy. “Don’t forget that.”

 _We won’t,_ thinks Ziva, looking away and meeting the empty gaze of a dead old woman in pink. _We won’t._


	3. Chapter 3

The orange of their office is comforting to Tim. It means they’re safe – or at least, that they have security. It also gives him peace of mind to know he has somewhere to stay during the day, if not the night. As witnesses to a major crime, Tim and the others have been temporarily suspended from field-work on SECNAV’s orders, for their own safety – meaning paperwork and lots of boredom.

But _safe_ boredom.

“Next thing you know, we’ll be put into witness protection,” grumbles Tony, who then exclaims, “We’re federal agents! We can look after ourselves!”

“But we are the _only_ witnesses,” Ziva states, frustrated. “We have had cases like this before-”

“With _civilians,_ Ziva.”

“No,” Ziva makes a fist on her desk, “We have had Marines and sailors in this office who have been witnesses in trials who were threatened, injured or murdered, Tony! Even I am not so stupid as to think-”

“Hey! Who are you calling stupid?”

“Enough,” Tim intervenes before a full fight can break out, stressing, “You’re both right. Yes, Tony, we are federal agents and we can look after ourselves on the job – but Ziva has a point. If the Scordato’s come after us, which is likely, given how we’re testifying, then we are in danger, Tony.”

His co-worker whines. Tim watches as Tony leans back in his chair and stares morosely at his pile of paperwork. Tim almost feels bad for him.

Almost.

When Tim goes home that night, it is with an escort. At the door to his apartment, he stops them from going first. “I’ll be fine with just myself.”

“Protocol, sir,” says the escort. They gently push past him, encouraging him to step back.

Rolling his eyes, Tim watches them use his key to unlock the door – not expecting the explosion that follows. Everything burns, his lungs heavy and full of fluid. He thinks he cries out at one point. He thinks he feels hands.

The next thing Tim knows, he’s lying in a hospital bed, high on drugs and wrapped in bandages, Gibbs at his bedside.

“Tim,” he starts, asking, “You awake? Tim-”

He floats in and out of consciousness. Every time he wakes, Gibbs or one of his teammates are there, whether it’s Abby or Palmer, Tony or Ziva – he even thinks he catches Ducky there, once, reading him an extract from his own book, with commentary.

Eventually, he’s dragged back to waking, coming eye to eye with the Director.

“Vance,” Tim mumbles, mouth as dry as the Sahara. “What happened?”

“Your place was booby-trapped,” says Vance, who leans on the edge of his bed with a grim smile beneath his moustache. “As were Agents David and Dinozzo’s. The Scordato’s did their research, McGee – and until the culprits are found and a showing is made, all three of you will be placed in a remote location for your own safety. I’m just waiting on the doctors to sign the papers to get you out of here.”

“What? No, we can’t leave,” he croaks, grateful for the water Vance hands him immediately after. The liquid on his parched throat is Nirvana. “Thank-you.”

“No problem,” says Vance, before he asks, “Why do you not want to go? You’d be safer.”

“The job. We’re the best. We can’t- we can’t be intimidated by them.” Tim refuses to accept the idea that they’re not secure enough to stay. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

Vance claps a hand on his shoulder, smile agreeing but defeated. “They’re mafia, McGee, not terrorists. They don’t play by the same rules. The fact that Dinozzo is a relative makes things even more complicated – Bruno Scordato is denying the attempt on his life. Says it wasn’t on his orders.”

Feeling itchy under his bandages, Tim recalls how Tony is supposedly related to the Italian Mafia Family, a swell of betrayal causing him to shake his head. He doesn’t believe it. He _can’t_ believe it.

Watching him carefully, Vance shakes his head in return, making his way to the head of the bed. “Gibbs will fill you in. It won’t be for long, trust me. Bruno Scordato is scouring his ranks, though we know it comes from somewhere near the top, if not the man himself. They might just destroy themselves, in the meantime.”

“Ha,” Tim says dryly, doubting _that_ more than he doubts Tony’s blood relations.

“Get some rest, McGee,” advises Vance. “That’s all you’ll be doing for the next while.”

The Director leaves and Tim lays there, mulling on the information he’d just received; however, sleep comes easy and not even his active mind can keep him from slipping into slumber. Tim only hopes that they won’t be in hiding too long-

He doesn’t think he’d be able to survive Tony if they were together longer than a week.


	4. Chapter 4

_Indie’s Motel_ isn’t probably the busiest of places, but it’s off a highway, just outside of Washington. Ziva gets their keys and silently directs them to room forty-nine, Tony slinging Tim between them both as Gibbs leads the way.

Once inside, they help Tim to the nearest bed, careful not to aggravate his injuries. Gibbs at the door looks over them in that protective manner of his, eyes burning holes through Tim’s bandages and it makes Tony long for this to be over. But he knows better than that. The Scordato’s won’t stop, no matter that Grandpa Bruno disapproves. Things only ever stop when Margarita gets involved – and that hasn’t happened in over a decade.

“You all stay safe, you hear me?” Gibbs demands. Tony stands tall, spine made of steel.

“We’ll be here, boss.”

Gibbs looks angry. _Angry at himself or angry at the Scordato’s?_ Tony wonders, listening as he says, “The warden will be here in the morning. Use the stuff in that bag.”

‘That bag’, Tony knows is the bag full of hair-dye and clippers, along with make-up and several other disguise helpers. Nodding silently, Tony doesn’t expect for Gibbs to step closer to him, hand rising to his shoulder. The squeeze means something – support, an acknowledgement, maybe. Tony doesn’t tear his eyes away from him.

_He knows._

Suddenly, Tony moves, arms wrapping around his boss tightly. _He knows,_ he thinks, desperate. _This is goodbye._

Gibbs doesn’t hesitate before hugging him back, moving away from him after one last squeeze to stand by Tim, patting his chest and leaning down to whisper something in his ear. Tim looks sharply at Gibbs, but the boss says something else. Tony strains to hear what he’s saying. It’s no use.

“Gibbs?” Ziva questions, confusion her only sign of denial. She can see this for what it is. “Why are you acting like you will not see us again?”

“Because he won’t,” answers Tony, as the man himself moves to embrace Ziva tightly, pressing a kiss to her head. Something in his chest constricts and Tony already misses Gibbs and the rest of the team at NCIS like a score across his heart.

“The Scordato’s,” Tim mumbles.

“Yeah, Tim. The Scordato’s.” And Tony runs a hand through his hair, feeling like his life is falling apart. “They won’t stop. Whoever it is, they won’t stop. Gibbs,” Tony attracts his attention with a call of his name, waiting until he lets go of Ziva with one last fatherly kiss before speaking.

As serious as he can, Tony says, “Only call us back if Margarita Scordato says to you in person that it’s safe. Don’t trust anything else you hear from the Family. Nothing. From _no-one else._ ”

Gibbs watches him for a moment, then nods. Without another word, he leaves the motel, slamming the door behind him. It makes Tony flinch.

Ziva turns on him. “Why only Margarita Scordato?”

His life is crumbling around him. Tony feels like he’s at the top of a house of cards, about to fall down, down, down. “She’s the power behind the throne. Nonna Scordato. She’s been pulling out, recently, but her word still holds weight in every corner of the business. Grandpa Bruno can only do so much to help, if it’s really not him doing anything. I’d put my money on Amadeo, to be honest.”

“Won’t your grandfather do anything to stop him?” asks Tim from the bed, eyes half-closed.

“You worry about healing up, McDynamite,” Tony says to him, trying to lighten the mood. He pats Tim’s foot, “I’ll tell you when we’re all cosy and tucked away where no-one can find us.”

“I believe you…”

While their colleague falls asleep again, Tony ignores how Ziva approaches him, hand gently pressing against his elbow.

“These things…they have been secret.” He can feel her eyes boring into the side of his head. “What are you so afraid of?”

“I grew up with these people. I didn’t know better, until my mother died. Luciana Scordato.” Tony laughs bitterly. “Do you know what it’s like, to live a seemingly normal childhood, then to be yanked out of it when your father stops getting courtesy invites to Sunday dinners? My mom was my link and they loved me, yeah, but she was supposed to be in charge of how I was brought in. Grandpa Bruno took over, when she passed. I was old enough that the slow introduction might have worked better, but he dropped me in the thick of it. I got scared.”

“And then your father sent you to boarding school,” recalls Ziva, a frown passing across her face.

“Yeah. His attempt at stability, while he dodged the Family and got his own connections reworked. Can’t be associated with the Scordato’s when your only link is a third generation kid.” Tony remembers those early years, the ones before boarding school and after his mother died. He first held a gun when he was ten and threatened a man when he was a year younger than that.

“My mom wanted me to be a lawyer,” Tony tells Ziva, turning to look at her better. He smiles, somewhat, pained at the memory. “Didn’t want me associated with the Family proper until I had my degree. Great Uncle Gianluca had the same job – we spent the summer together, when I was six. Went skiing in Vermont, like you and your Miami boyfriend.” He chuckles, but Ziva doesn’t pick up the tease.

“You are my best friend, Tony,” she says quietly, hand moving to his chest, laying over his heart. “I can see this is hurting you.”

“Well, you won’t be seeing me for long – they’ll split us up,” Tony reminds her, pained smile even wider. “Witness Protection Program won’t keep us together.”

“And that is where you are wrong,” says Ziva, her first mile appearing as she pats his chest, stepping back. “Gibbs called in some favours. We will not be parted. We are a team, Tony – and staying together is the way we stay alive.”

“Oh. Really?” Tony blinks, surprised and somewhat warmed at the thought that he won’t be alone, however long it takes for the Scordato’s to be brought to trial. “That’s nice. What cover do you think they’ll go with? Married couple and a brother? Ooh – all three of us, _together._ ”

Ziva rolls her eyes, grabbing the bag of goodies. “Whatever our cover will be, Tony, I will play it well. Now, will you help me with my hair?”

“Going blonde?” Tony questions, peering at the bag as she pushes past him to the bathroom. “You’ll want to turn on the extraction fan. Don’t want to tip off the neighbours or choke on the fumes-”


	5. Chapter 5

The wardens that show up – two of them, called Ed and Jake – take them on a wild goose chase, using cars, five different trains, two planes and a taxi, splitting up occasionally and coming back together at specific landmarks.

“Any trail, we want to obscure,” says Jake. “The Scordato’s have found people in the Program before, so our tactics have changed. We agreed to hide you together, because they wouldn’t expect it and because your boss is a scary fucker, to be completely honest.”

“Yeah, we know.” Tim sighs, clearly exhausted. He no longer has any bandages on, but the scars are still healing and he itches at them. Ziva grabs at his hand when he goes to scratch under his sleeve.

Ed clears his throat as they approach a layby, where over a dozen trucks are parked. Ziva considers themselves lucky that they’re in a campervan this time, rather than a car.

“Group discussion about our next movements,” he announces, parking the car and drawing all the blinds on the windows. The five of them shuffle around the small living space, finding seats together as Ed shows off a realtor’s brochure for a house. “This is where you’ll be staying. Four bedroomed property that Professor Antonio Dinardo inherited from his ex-father in law.”

Ziva’s eyes widen, while Tony practically jumps up in his seat. “What? Are we reusing cover identities?”

“Just this one,” Ed assures him. “You already had everything set up, off-books and it’s a good cover, really – very well built.”

“You’re implying,” Tony grits his teeth, “than Rene Benoit, _the Frog_ , left me a house.”

“And he did,” says Jake, who sounds amused. “We took this off him in assets, when his properties and possessions were seized. In any case, we back-stamped some documents, a marriage license, divorce papers, etcetera and got Jeanne Benoit’s agreement to corroborate if anyone comes poking around.”

“How the hell did you get her to do that?” Tony questions, but this time, rather than outraged, he’s hurt. Something about his tone sets Ziva off and she leans further into Tim, who she’s recently found to be a great cushion on this cross-country trip. She wants to reach out to Tony, to offer him comfort – but he’s too far away, except if she wanted to kick him.

Ed shrugs at Tony’s despair. “Anyway, the same cover story applies. We’ve got your dossier on everything, if you need a refresher. Here-” he hands out a folder and Tony takes it sharply, still visibly distressed. Ed eyes him up, before looking to Ziva. “You’re the new wife. We got confirmation from your boss that you can hold up a foreign accent, so you’ve been marked as a Columbian immigrant.”

 _Lovely,_ Ziva thinks, nodding in a stoic fashion. She takes the folder he hands her, opening it up immediately.

“You’ve been married for four years, this past August,” Ed describes. “Your names are Professor Antonio Daciano Dinardo, who has a Ph.D in Film and Media Studies and Kelly Dinardo, nee Shepard.”

Ziva’s breath is stolen to her. _Kelly Shepard._ “Excuse me?”

Ed and Jake exchange a glance. “Is there a problem?”

“That-” and Ziva stops, because clearly, they have no idea the impact those names have on her. “Nothing. There is no problem.”

“Are you sure?” Jake asks, suspicious.

“We’re sure,” Tim answers for her, putting a hand on hers. Ziva grasps it, holding on tightly. Jake and Ed’s expressions clearly betray their disbelief. Tim continues on brazenly, asking, “What about me?”

“We’ll get to you in a moment,” says Jake, still looking at Ziva. “You emigrated from Villavicencio, Columbia, when you were fourteen, your parents passing in a car accident when you were seventeen. From there, you went through a series of foster-homes – the cities of which we listed and a couple of family names for you to use, if anyone asks – before you got a scholarship to Georgetown in Foreign Policy and Languages.”

“Which languages do I speak?” Ziva questions.

“Well,” Jake says, flipping to a page in her file, “we decided against Hebrew and Arabic, in case your natural accent is noticed. Naturally as a Colombian, you know Colombian Spanish, as well as English, Russian and Mandarin. Any others you know must not be seen as fluent, at a maximum of two.”

“I see,” says Ziva and it’s true – she does see. She is a polyglot and having a limit seems wise, when she is not a highly-trained assassin. “What is my day-job, if we are moving to this…town?”

Ed grins. “Already got an email chain between you and a martial arts instructor who’s looking for a partner, teaching kids in the local dojo.”

“Really?” Ziva says, more alarmed than anything. Suspicion blooms and she glances Tony’s way. “Will we truly be in the Program this long?”

A tense silence falls, before Jake says delicately, “We have to plan for the long-term, Agent David. If things don’t go to plan, you could be undercover for some time.”

“This is not ideal,” says Ziva.

“No, it’s not,” Jake agrees, sympathetic, “But it has to be done.”

“Agent McGee,” starts Ed, taking out his file and handing it across. Ziva takes it on his behalf, considering how she’s leaning on one of his arms and holding onto the other, opening it to reveal the thin life-story of ‘Thomas Grant Evans’. “We took some creative liberties with your pseudonym. You’re the Dinardo’s lodger and high school friend of Kelly’s, who agreed to move in with them after estrangement from your parents.”

“Estrangement? How?” Tim questions, while Ziva struggles to contain a smile at a pertinent note in Evans’ file.

“Homosexuality,” Jake states breezily, before moving on. “You have three brothers who you call once a week, who will actually be me and Ed, as Edward and Jackson. Your third brother is emergency only.” Jake looks at them seriously. “If you think your cover is blown and need extraction, you call the number we give you and ask to talk to ‘John’. We should immediately reply with, ‘John is on his way already’ or another similar phrase, with an expected time of arrival.”

“Understood, amigo,” says Tony, flipping through his thick dossier. Unlike Tim’s, which is thin and unlike Ziva’s, which only has a few loose-leaf papers to do with Kelly Shepard’s childhood immigration to the States, the Antonio Dinardo file is thick with papers and receipts.

Ed goes on to say, “The house will have furniture installed already by movers, along with a few copies of personal items noticed in your homes to make you more comfortable. Films, books, plants – we know these things will end up in your home, eventually. Any bugs you notice are _not_ part of the WITSEC program. Email either Edward or Jackson about them, stating you have the ‘same plumbing problems as the last house’.”

“Will we be getting address books, then?” Tim asks.

“Address books, phones, computers, the whole shebang,” Ed confirms, before describing more of what to expect and other codes to use in various events. It surprises Ziva that they have a code for expectant tornado weather, to tell WITSEC they might be out of contact, should the worst happen and they get dislodged from their home.

“It’s unlikely,” Tim says later, when they’re moving furniture around the living room and unwrapping the L-shaped sofa. “This area of the United States is more prone to floods, anyway.”

“ _Thomas,_ don’t joke about those things,” Tony says mockingly, throwing one of the cushions at him. Tim is hit in the face, unable to catch it while trying to shift the book-case. Ziva fails to contain her laugh at his face, post-cushion.

“Ha ha, very funny, Tony,” says Tim, lips pressing together as he moves the dark bookcase the last part of the way against the wall. Ziva, leaving the sofa to Tony, joins Tim beside the cabinet, unpacking the cardboard box marked ‘BOOKS’.

“Hey! What are you doing, abandoning me for Major Tom, Kells?” Tony whines, really getting into the whole ‘fake name’ thing. Ziva briefly wonders whether Gibbs called his little girl that, too.

Hiding her morose thoughts, Ziva tosses her caramel-coloured hair, looking back at him with a scoff.

“I am putting our belongings away where they belong. It will feel like home sooner, this way.”

“But- but the _sofa-_ ”

Tim grins at her, eyes sparkling. “Thank-you, Kelly.”

“No problem, Thomas.”


	6. Chapter 6

The idyllic cliffside town of Westcoast – a _very_ creative name, Tony is convinced the locals would assure him, despite being on the eastern edge of the States – has a population of two and a half thousand and an eclectic bunch of residents. Tony assumes this, because within two hours of arriving, Ziva catches sight of their new neighbours approaching with various Tupperware.

“Here come the rednecks,” he mutters, before the three of them drift to the front door, opening it as a veritable hoard of middle-aged couples and pensioners smile and wave at them.

“Hey, folks! Welcome to the neighbourhood!” Calls out an older woman with a definite twang to her accent, wearing a floral skirt and a long raincoat. At the front of the group, she’s clearly the spokesperson. “I’m Georgina, from next door at number seven!”

Tony steps out, reaching out for the offered Tupperware as she alone steps up onto their wrap-around porch. _Definitely in charge,_ Tony thinks as he introduces himself, rolling out the charm. Grasping her hand, he winks.

“Antonio Dinardo, Tony to you, Georgina.”

“Oh-hoh,” Georgina giggles into her hand, looking to his companions in the doorway. “And y’all?”

Ziva clears her throat, seemingly deciding to act the shy one. “Kelly.”

“And I’m Thomas,” Tim greets, reaching past Ziva to shake Georgina’s hand. “Thanks for welcoming us to town. It’s nice to be out of the city again.”

“You’re from the city? _”_ Georgina smiles, “Oh, we’ve got other ex-urbanites around here. You’ll fit in fine and dandy. How are you related to Tony and Kelly, Thomas?”

“Close friend. They’re putting me up in their spare room for the next few months,” Tim says genially, stage-whisper, “The economy, y’know?”

Georgina nods understandingly, patting his hand fondly. “You’ll find you path, Thomas, don’t you worry. Until then, you get tucked up in Westcoast. Maybe you’ll meet one of our girls here.”

Tim laughs a little awkwardly and Tony smirks, remembering the little gay tidbit in his backstory. Looking over Georgina’s shoulder, Tony nods to the nearest old man.

“So, what were the last owners like? We got this place in an inheritance, funnily enough, so we don’t know the history – came in handy when we were looking for a place, I’ll tell you now.”

The old man reaches out a hand, which Tony shakes strongly. “Bart. I run the local poker nights down in the church basement. We got a couple and their girls in here when they were still young ‘uns – heard they went into international politics or whatnot. Know nothing about the house, except that they _did_ have an investigation there.” Bart taps his nose, pointing at the house. “Those X Files types, putting their nose where it wasn’t wanted. Margie, my niece, used to come clean the place once a month. She’d be the one to ask about anything out of sorts.”

“Thanks,” says Tony, genuinely. He looks back at the house, imagining a young Jeanne running around the property with her father in the house, reading a paper. The vision comes easily, until the moment he lays eyes on Ziva, who is caught between watching him and watching the newest of threats to categorise.

Reaching out, Tony draws her to his side, resting his arm loosely around her shoulders. Her drugstore shampoo doesn’t quite hide the fading smell of bleach and hair-dye.

“We’re having a party at number fifteen. You’d be welcome to come, meet the locals…” tells Georgina, watching them with that expectant expression that tells them they have to say yes, or be subject to bad gossip.

Unfortunately, Ziva doesn’t seem to get that. “We are unpacking at the moment.”

“-but we’d be happy to come,” chimes in Tim, having the same epiphany that Tony has. Tony offers him a discreet nod. “What time?”

“Any time’s fine, Thomas.” Georgina tells him cheerily, before offering their help, “Why don’t we give you a hand with all the furniture, hon? Sort of like those barn raisings – we were on our way to the party, but Richard won’t mind, will you Richard?”

One of the men in the group tips his hat. “Naw, Georgie. Let’s get these young fellas all sorted out, then get all the food over to my Macy.”

Tony is struck by a strange sensation, wanting to make a comment about being sucked into a movie – but he’s too short of words to say it aloud, letting Georgina pat his arm as she passes, walking straight into their house. He’s still holding the Tupperware. At a glance, it looks like lasagne.

“Kelly,” Tim coughs quietly as the last of the group move into the house, making wild noises at the ‘state of the property’. “Where’s your gun?”

“They are not inside the house, Thomas, but thank-you for your concern,” mutters Ziva, before she untucks herself from under Tony’s arm and returns to the living room. Tony can faintly hear her saying, _“Tony’s movies will not go with Tom’s games, but thank-you…Tilly. Yes, it’s nice to meet you, also. No, no, I will put those up-”_

“McWitness,” Tony whispers, getting one last pun in before the long haul. He reaches out, gripping at Tim’s shoulder with a strength he didn’t know he possessed, meeting his worried, concerned eyes. He swallows, unsure of what to say.

Turns out, there’s nothing he can say at all.

In the doorway, Bart raises an eyebrow at them. “Fellas, you’re going to have to pull your weight, here. Donnie and James already have your dining room unpacked.”

“Just needed to ask my pal here something important,” lies Tony, smiling with his mouth closed. “It doesn’t matter. So – poker night, huh?”

“Oh yeah, you should come.”

“Hell yeah! Though, someone will have to distract Kells so she doesn’t come and clean you out,” he laughs, getting a chuckle out of Bart before they re-enter the house.


End file.
